


The Night Gladys Left

by Crusoe15



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:28:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26006473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crusoe15/pseuds/Crusoe15
Summary: The show never says what happened between Jughead and FP after his mom left. This my take on it and the one time FP would have broken his vow to not hit his kids.
Relationships: FP Jones II & Jughead Jones
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	The Night Gladys Left

**Jughead**

I, fourteen-year-old Jughead Jones, entered the trailer I shared with my family and looked around, my mother and sister were nowhere in view just my father. FP Jones was sitting at the small kitchen table, clearly drunk and getting more drunk as he went.

“Hey, Dad, where’s Mom and Jellybean?” I asked cautiously. My father was either depressed, angry, or manic when he was drunk. I would decide what to do when i knew what kind of mood Dad was in.

“They left, boy,” said Dad. He stood up from the table and picked up a piece of paper. Then he walked over to me and shoved it into my chest. I looked down and read the piece of paper, which turned out to be a letter from my mom. She had left and taken my little sister, Jellybean, with her. She said she could not live with my dad anymore and she didn’t want me to have to change schools with only four years left. She could not mean this, could she? I felt like my world was crumbling, my mother and sister were gone? My mother had left me here, alone with my father.

“But, they’re not _really gone,_ right? They’re coming back, right, Dad?” I asked.

“Can’t you read, Boy?!” my dad shouted, “No they’re not coming back, your mom doesn’t want me and apparently she doesn’t want you either!”

“But-,” I began. My dad’s hand lashed out and hit me hard. I was thrown sideways by the backhanded blow and found myself on the ground on my hands and knees, my mouth filled with blood. I turned my head to stare at my father. My parents typically used corporal punishment on us, particularly me, but never had my dad hit me in anger and certainly not a backhand across my face like this. Judging by the how badly my jaw ached, the blood in my mouth, the cut i could feel on my cheek, and the bruises I could feel forming, my father hadn’t bothered to temper the blow.

“Get up, boy,” growled my dad.

I didn’t move.

“I said get up!” he yelled, as he sank his boot into my stomach. The kick put me on my back. My dad reached down and dragged me to my feet by my collar.

“When I tell you to do something you do it! You hear me, boy?!” my dad’s face was literally inches from mine as he shouted. He was so loud it gave me a headache to go with my aching face and stomach. My dad raised his hand to hit me again.

“Dad, please, stop,” I begged holding out my hands. He hit me again. I knew my father’s rough grip on my collar was the only thing keeping me on my feet.

“Dad, I’m sorry! Please, Dad, please, stop!” I yelled as he raised his hand for another blow  
.  
He blinked and then blinked again. He slowly let go of me and stepped away. I sank to the ground, I had no idea why the beating had stopped but I wasn’t going to question it  
.  
**FP**  
_Oh my god,_ I thought, _what am_ I _doing?_ I looked at my bruised and bloody son at my feet. How many times had I been on the other side of this equation? How many nights had I begged my father to stop, only for the beating to continue? I had sworn I would never hit my children the way my father had hit me. Yet, here I was, drunk and standing over my son, that I had beaten.

  
“Jug,” I said as gently as I could, crouching down. Jughead drew his knees up and covered his head with his arms and tried to move out of my reach.

  
“Dad, please, I’m sorry,” came a muffled plea from the ball my son had curled into. It broke my heart, to know he was expecting another blow.

  
“Jug, I’m not going to hit you again,” I said, still trying to keep my voice gentle as I spread out my hands low and wide, the universal gesture for I won’t hurt you. I thought it might be useful that he would be able to see my hands too.

  
He slowly moved his arms and lifted his head to look at me. God, his face looked terrible. There was blood all over his mouth, his jaw and cheek were bruising, and a cut that looked like my ring was on his cheek.

  
“C’mon,” I said, gently helping Jug to his feet, “Let’s clean you up, Jug.”

  
I sat him in a chair at the kitchen table and got the first aid kit and a washcloth. I ran warm water on the washcloth and began cleaning the blood from my son’s face. I felt sick, knowing I had done this.

  
“Turn your head, “ I told him after I washed off the blood. I gently felt his face, making sure I hadn’t broken anything. Satisfied, I grabbed an antiseptic wipe and cleaned the cut on his face.

  
“Show me your stomach,” I said. Jug hadn’t said a word the whole time, just followed my instructions. That didn’t change as he shrugged out of his jacket and lifted his t-shirt to reveal a darkening bruise the exact size and shape of my boot. I tasted bile.

  
“Tell me if any of this hurt” I instructed. I gently felt his ribs and they carefully pressed on the skin covering his organs. He gasped a few times but nothing concerning.

  
“Is your mouth still bleeding?” I asked.

  
“No, sir,” he whispered, looking at his hands. I resisted the urge to tell him to look at me when he spoke to me.

  
“Go brush your teeth and rinse out your mouth. Be careful or you might stat bleeding again,” I told him. He got up, went to the bathroom, and came back a few minutes later.

  
“Jug, look at me,” I said when he was sitting down again, “I cannot tell you how sorry I am. This will never happen again. It shouldn’t have happened this time. This is not your fault. You did nothing to deserve this. There is nothing you could do that justifies me beating you. This is all on me, Juggie. Don’t ever think that this was your fault,” I told him. I meant every word. This was at least one thing I could do right. Before, after, or during the beating my father had always made sure to tell me that I had brought this on myself and he was happy to teach me my lesson again if it didn’t stick. I wouldn’t have Jughead thinking that he deserved this or that I would do it again.

  
“Do you understand me, Jug?” I asked putting two fingers under his chin and lifting his face up so he’d look at me.

  
“Yeah, Dad,” he said, “I understand.”

  
“Alright,” I said and handed him some Tylenol, “take these and get some sleep. I’ll leave the bottle out if you need more in the morning.”

  
He got up and walked into the bedroom.

  
I sat at my table, a bloody washcloth and wipe in front of me. When I was sure my son was asleep, I buried my face in my hands and broke down. I had done the one thing I had sworn I wouldn’t, I had raised my hand to my child. I was no better than my father.


End file.
